


Lightning Strike

by Marbled Wings (LynxRyder)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (no detailed descriptions), Aziraphale is the cure, Crowley is in Pain, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post canon, Secrets and shared history, Sickfic, migraines, references to past torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27060871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynxRyder/pseuds/Marbled%20Wings
Summary: When pain and past trauma catch up with Crowley, he retreats hoping to ride out the storm. Realising something is amiss, Aziraphale comes to the rescue only to face the uncomfortable truth of just how much Crowley has hidden from him and how much he has suffered alone.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 231





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are no graphic depictions of violence here but Crowley does have flashbacks and is in a lot of pain so I've rated it M out of caution. 
> 
> There will be comfort. I promise.

_‘Crowwwwwley.’_

_The shadows rippled, shifting in a way that should have been entirely impossible. The ominous buzzing that had been a constant ever since Crowley’s arrival grew louder. He tried to clamp down on his panic, keep his mouth shut. They hadn’t told him why he was here. Silence was his only advantage and he intended to keep it for as long he was able._

_'You were not where you were told to be, Crowley. You did not do as you were told to do.’_

_This, unfortunately, was entirely true. Crowley had been trying to think of possible reasons, plausible excuses, but some things were not defensible. Instead of being in London sowing discord in Parliament he had been across the Channel eating crepes and basking in the glow of divine gratitude, and he certainly hadn’t been expecting demonic company. They didn’t usually check, that was the thing. And Crowley had been planning on getting the job done eventually._

_'Didn’t realise it was urgent,’ he said, his voice wobbling slightly more than he would have liked, ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Send me back up there and it’ll be chaos in no time. Full report on your desk by the end of the week.’_

_The buzzing increased to a pitch that set his teeth on edge._

_'Orderzzzzz are orderzzzzzz, Crowley. We do not expect to repeat ourselvezzzzzz.’_

_A loud clinking had joined the buzzing now, forming a sinister orchestra of sound that was making it very difficult for Crowley to stay calm. When the first of the chains began to slink around his waist, the last of his hope that he was getting out of this began to fade and the panic he had been struggling to hold at bay rose up and took hold of him by the throat._

‘Fuck!’

Crowley tore his way into consciousness, casting the duvet aside and tumbling out of bed so fast that he almost hit the floor. Righting himself by use of the nearest wall, Crowley’s gaze darted to one corner then another, checking and re-checking but still needing to do so once more, just to be sure.

‘Fuck,’ he said again. His voice, very small and flat, was immediately swallowed up by the silence.

Closing his eyes Crowley laid his forehead against the smooth, cool stone. It would have been dripping if he was really in Hell, or mouldy, or aflame. He was not in Hell, he was in his flat. Just a stupid dream. 

The walk to his study, short as it was, made him nauseous. The nightmare had only exacerbated the pain in his temples that had sent him to bed in the first place. Crowley sank onto his throne then twisted sideways so that he had no view of the screen mounted on the wall behind him. He had not turned it on for months, and it had not sprung to life of its own accord for over two years now. Crowley shuddered, remembering the last occasion was hardly going to help.

Snatching up the phone from his desk, Crowley tucked the receiver between shoulder and ear and leaned back.

‘We are quite definitively closed, I’m afraid.’

‘I should hope so at this hour.’

‘Crowley? My dear, I thought you were sleeping.’

Crowley made a non-committal sound and kicked one leg over the arm of his chair. He had been right to call. Aziraphale’s voice was all he needed to ground him.

‘You’re reading?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Read to me?’

If Aziraphale heard the plea in it, he kindly declined to comment. There had been more than a few occasions now when Crowley had drifted off to the sound of Aziraphale’s voice, the weight and warmth of his words enough to keep any evil at bay.

‘Shall I keep going, my dear?’

Crowley smothered a yawn with his hand.

‘Can’t stop there, angel. How will I rest if I don’t find out what happens between the ill-mannered posh one and the impossible beauty from an unfortunate family?’

‘Tosh,’ said Aziraphale, fondness softening the scold, ‘I know full well you’re rooting for the pair of them.’

‘I like the villain. Keep reading.’

Though Crowley would have happily listened to Aziraphale all night, he was not going to request it. He would have to justify the asking, and there would be more questions. Better to draw things to a close, say goodnight, promise that he’d be over soon while being careful not to make any firm commitments. As soon as the call was ended, Crowley felt the severed connection between them amplify the ache Aziraphale’s voice had kept at bay. Resisting the temptation to call straight back, Crowley pushed himself out of his chair and stalked through the flat.

Perhaps he was drawing conclusions too hastily. Yes, he’d had a nightmare. And yes, his head hurt. But it did not necessarily follow that he was about to endure one of the attacks he so dreaded. He might simply be tired. A dream might be just that, an idle straying of the mind. Nothing to be overly concerned about. Crowley clung to this absurd little hope even as he began to open cupboards, searching through them with increasing desperation. He had wine, copious quantities of it, and various spirits but he left each and every bottle untouched. Alcohol could dull many an ache but it was no match for this. Besides, drinking was something he did with Aziraphale. He was not about to sully it.

Unwilling to stop and give in to despair, Crowley moved through to where his plants had hoped for a peaceful few hours to themselves. None of them had any particular medicinal value. He had not chosen them for that, though that seemed like an oversight now. As he stalked through the room, ignoring the trembling leaves around him, Crowley considered his options. There had to be something he could do, some remedy he hadn’t tried yet.

Crowley was the local pharmacy’s first customer that morning and he would be its one and only customer until his needs had been met. The pharmacist did not know this but they were viewing him with a certain amount of wariness nonetheless. In hindsight, standing outside the shop’s front door for forty five minutes waiting for it to open might not have been the best idea. Crowley did not attempt to find what he needed on the shelf.

‘Painkillers. Strongest ones you have. Please.’

The pharmacist raised her eyebrows a fraction but her tone was neutral as she asked, ‘Might I ask what you need them for?’

‘Headaches,’ Crowley replied, tapping the side of his sunglasses. This elicited some limited sympathy in the form of a tight smile.

‘Normally I’d recommend regular paracetamol for a headache.’

Crowley gritted his teeth and the pharmacist changed tact.

‘Perhaps something with codeine.’

She turned, reaching for one of the bright packets on the shelf behind her. 

‘Gonna need more than one.’

‘There are strict limits on how many…’

Crowley glared his most glaringly through his glasses and the pharmacist got the message. He would leave once the shelf had been cleared and not a moment before. Human limits be blessed.

On the walk home pulses of light began flashing in his peripheral vision. The Bentley would have been preferable but Crowley knew better than to drive in such a state. He was already losing his ability to summon his powers and though he was doing his best to pretend he hadn’t noticed, there was no need to bring pedestrians or other motorists into it.

_‘Crowley…’_

He sped up, despite the churning it provoked in his stomach. 

_‘Croooowwwwley.’_

There was no one there, it was all in his head. Crowley repeated this to himself all the way home, not quite able to look over his shoulder in case he was wrong. He was not running – he never ran – but Crowley was certainly panting by the time he reached his building. Shutting the door behind him did not feel nearly as final as he would have liked.

‘Good morning!’

Crowley flinched so violently in response to this greeting that its bearer gave a start herself, pressing her hand to her chest in a theatrical display of fright. Just what he bloody needed, a run in with his chatty neighbour.

‘Goodness, Mr Crowley. I didn’t mean to frighten you!’

‘Not frightened.’

‘You’re up early.’

Crowley held up his bag from the pharmacy, gave it a little shake to demonstrate the ample quantity of medicine contained within.

‘Oh, you poor dear. You don’t look well, I must say. Pale, you know. Drawn.’

‘Cheers.’

‘If there’s anything you need…’

Crowley proceeded up the stairs while she was still talking, leaving her counsel regarding the correct dosage of vitamin C behind.

The cool interior of his flat was a welcome relief. For a few minutes he remained in the entranceway, eyes closed. The pain was drilling through both temples now. Soon it would wrap around the back of his skull, set his spine alight as it did its best to undo him. The bag in his hand suddenly seemed laughably inadequate. After the first attack, centuries ago, he had tried whatever he could get his hands on. There had been plenty to try but any relief was always temporary.

He took the pills anyway. If they worked well enough, he might be able to rest, and if he was very, very lucky he would be able to sleep and the worst would pass in unconsciousness.

_No matter how hard Crowley fought and struggled, the chains binding him held fast. The pain came from everywhere, agony unending. He could no longer hear the questions they were asking him, had no idea what answers were coming out of his mouth or what he was giving away. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good enough._

_Pleading had never got him anywhere. Not Above. Not Below. But still, he tried._

_‘Please…’_

_‘Don’t be pathetic, Crowley. You know how this goes. You don’t deserve for us to stop.’_

Crowley woke to the sound of his own thin scream. Fear had made chains of his twisted sheets, his struggles against them only making the wild pain worse until he was retching over the side of the bed. Even awake the memories continued to assault him.

Collapsing weakly back onto the mattress, Crowley tried to focus on the familiar surroundings; his bed, his walls, the book Aziraphale wanted him to read on the bedside table. They were real, all of them, here like him. The book in particular held his gaze. He had been trusted with it, allowed to borrow it on the understanding that it would be returned unharmed and preferably read from cover to cover. Crowley was no more capable of reading in this state than he was of getting up but he was glad the book was there. There were no books in Hell, no silk sheets, no angels waiting for phone calls to explain the prolonged absence of demons. None of this lessened the agony of it all but they were at least reminders that this pain was coming from within, not without. This time at least.

Rolling onto his side, Crowley curled into himself, hands buried in his hair. There should have been comfort in the fact that there were no demons hiding in the shadows. But as the pain worsened, there was a tiny part of Crowley that wished there was someone he could fight off, someone to blame, someone who might just stop if he begged them to. But there was no one, no one at all. He was entirely and completely alone.

_Hell released him eventually - torn, broken and bleeding - back into the world. Less time had passed than Crowley might have predicted while imprisoned but more than enough for London to have changed. Disorientated and traumatised, Crowley had nowhere to go, no home, no safe place. Nowhere they wouldn’t find him again if they wanted to. This thought propelled him forwards, blinding him to the truth of where he was going until it was too late._

_There was nothing to differentiate Aziraphale’s humble dwelling from all the ones surrounding it, no ethereal light, no gentle warmth, and yet Crowley knew without doubt that the angel had passed this way, gracing the streets with his presence. Blessings left a trace, a faint glow that Crowley could perceive only faintly but it was enough to follow. Aziraphale was somewhere close. Ducking into an alleyway, Crowley tucked that knowledge around him like a blanket. It was foolish to be so near to him, and he certainly could not risk getting any closer. Wasn’t as if he’d be welcome anyway, not in the state he was in. Aziraphale would panic, understandably. There would be questions. More questions Crowley could not answer. But Aziraphale would put two and two together soon enough and he’d realise once and for all what a monumental risk he took every single time they were anywhere near each other._

_Crowley let his back hit the grimy wall, his legs giving way almost immediately. He winced as he landed but it was the new pain that cut deepest. He’d been waiting for the axe to fall for centuries, had known that one day Aziraphale would cut him off. Whatever small amount of pleasure Aziraphale might gain from his company could never compare to the threat of the agonies that awaited them both if they were caught. If Crowley weren’t so weak, he would have put an end to it himself long ago. But what else did he have in this endless, empty life? No one else understood him, no one else made him feel…good._

_He was a fool. A stupid, pathetic, wounded fool slumped in a dirty, dark alleyway, gaining crumbs of comfort from the proximity of an angel who should have smited him on first acquaintance. He wasn’t safe here, but he had nowhere to go. No one to fold their arms around him and tell him that he would be alright the way he’d seen humans do for each other when tragedy struck. Crowley thought of Aziraphale, of how gently he comforted the people he’d been charged to care for, how much he loved and mourned them when they slipped beyond his reach. What would it feel like to be looked after in such a way? How would it feel to have someone to turn to? To be held and healed and kept safe?_

_Crowley felt a tear slide down his face. He didn’t bother trying to wipe it away. Let them fall. There was nowhere lower than this._

The answer phone beeped.

‘Crowley? Are you there, my dear? I don’t wish to pester you but as I haven’t heard from you, I thought I’d call to remind you that we have theatre tickets for tomorrow. Do let me know if you’re not feeling up to it. I’m sure we could change the date with no trouble at all. Let me know.’

‘Still no word from you and I confess to being more than a bit worried. Do let me know if there’s anything I can do.’ 

‘Crowley, dearest. I really am becoming concerned. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, please call.’

The sound was incessant, a piercing trill that rose and fell, rose and fell. Its arrival was unpredictable, like all the best torturers. Crowley buried his face deep in his pillow, trying in vain to seek an escape. The tiniest noise made the pain swell unbearably until even his own whimpering had been silenced by the fear of the repercussions. It always went like this, after a while the demands and the accusations fell away and the exercise simply became about what they could do and how long they could do it for. An eternity of torment, Hell’s ultimate promise, but it wasn’t all flogging, cutting and screaming. With no warning at all, they would simply leave and he’d be alone for hours, days, weeks. Time was irrelevant when there was an endless supply of it. He would be upside down or chained to the wall or wherever and however they’d left him, and the only thing he’d be able to do was wait for them to return, wait for the pain to restart, for the whole thing to begin all over again.

He was never ready.

‘Crowley?’

Crowley tried to cover his face, a pathetic attempt to shield himself. He could not keep doing this, he had secrets and soon they would all come spilling out. No pain would compare to what would happen then, no punishment would be awful enough. Crowley bit down hard on his lip.

The light when it came was sudden, blinding. The sound that emerged from Crowley was inhuman, awful.

‘Crowley, dearest, whatever is the matter?’

There was nowhere to go, no escape. He had no fight left. And they were here, they were here again and it was going to hurt. It already hurt so much.

‘Please,’ he whispered, useless, pointless, ‘Please…’

Movement to the side of him, detectable even with his eyes closed. The displacement of air as someone came closer was enough to set tiny fires ablaze across Crowley’s skin. He did not try to pull away, no energy, no point, but the pleas streamed from him against his will.

‘Nonononono.’

They would punish him for his weakness but they were going to hurt him anyway and he was tired, he was so tired, he couldn’t take it anymore.

‘My darling…’

Crowley hissed as a palm made contact with his forehead. He tried to swallow it down, take it back, but it was too late. Questions came, questions he could not answer, and all the time there was the pain, pulsing, twisting and undoing him. Pain that was only getting worse. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t keep going.

Crowley was writhing away from the contact when abruptly the light and all its hateful intensity went out. A hand found his, gentle fingers brushing the back of his hand and then resting there, pinning him with the lightest touch.

They did this sometimes, slowed things down, pretended to care. Messed with him, told him lies, told him they wouldn’t hurt him anymore. It was a tactic every bit as cruel as any other they employed, a technique that worked so very well when the victim was hurting and lonely and desperate for the tiniest bit of comfort.

‘I’m here, Crowley. I’m here now.’

Crowley leaned into the kindness. He should have tried to resist but he was tired, so very tired. When fingers squeezed his, Crowley felt dangerous feelings rise up in him, feelings he needed to keep hidden, but he would never betray that secret. Never.

‘It’s alright now, darling. I can help you sleep.’

They were not going to let him escape that easily. This was all part of it. Making him believe that he might get a reprieve. Crowley felt a tear slide hot and slow down his face. They’d see. They’d punish him and then the illusion of safety would be broken.

Only this time there was no laughter, no taunting, no ridicule. There was only the feeling of someone holding his hand while a soft warmth washed over him, and then, before he could panic that he was letting his guard down, there was nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

The room was still dark when he woke. It was quiet but there was a quality to the silence that made Crowley wary of appearing awake to whoever might be watching. And someone was, that much he could sense.

Sleep had lessened the grip the pain had on his mind, enough for Crowley to think through what had happened immediately before unconsciousness. Someone had touched him kindly, someone with soft, warm, lightly perfumed skin whose grip had not hurt at all. Crowley breathed in, the air travelling across his tongue delivering confirmation of a very familiar scent.

‘Angel?’

The shutting of a book, the creak of a wooden chair, and then a voice, the only voice, ‘Crowley.’

Relief made it possible for Crowley to open his eyes. His reward was his angel, solid and real, and right in front of him.

‘Yer’ere.’

Aziraphale leaned in to make sense of Crowley’s garbled words, the furrow between his brow cutting deep. Crowley wanted to place a finger there, smooth out the lines. Such an action, however, was quite beyond him. Instead it was Aziraphale who reached out to him, smoothing Crowley’s hair back with the careful attention that had only become commonplace between them over the last year or so.

‘You’re in pain, my love.’

Crowley’s denial rose and died in the back of his throat, the slight sound that escaped him making Aziraphale’s hand tremble slightly.

‘What happened?’

Crowley’s thoughts stalled, the evasive answer he wanted to give tangling hopelessly with his old memories. The pain in his head was already beginning to ramp up again, refusing to give him even a few minutes peace. He flinched when Aziraphale’s fingers brushed his temple which made Aziraphale pull back at once. 

‘Did I hurt you?’

Aziraphale’s gaze was as relentless as it was kind. The questions would keep coming but at least this one Crowley knew exactly how to answer. He gave a very small nod.

Aziraphale reached for him again and Crowley felt a stab of fear, sharp and irrational. Aziraphale was not about to hurt him, he wouldn’t, but Crowley could not ignore the prickle of Aziraphale’s power radiating from his palm, seeking the source of his pain.

‘Stop.’

The feeling of power retreated but Aziraphale remained close, sliding his fingers back into Crowley’s hair, stroking gently. The pain did not fade but Crowley found he minded it less as the minutes passed. As Aziraphale’s fingernails began scratching softly at his scalp, Crowley found he could almost believe it was a normal day. A lazy Sunday perhaps, nowhere to be, nothing but the two of them, sleepy and safe.

‘Thatsssssnice.’

Aziraphale hummed his approval.

‘Then I shall continue.’

He was as good as his word, continuing his soft ministrations until Crowley’s eyes closed entirely without his permission, the oblivion of sleep quick to claim him.

A cycle began of Crowley waking to pain and Aziraphale soothing him back to sleep. Over and over, until finally Crowley woke and was able to reach for Aziraphale first. Reach for him and smile. 

‘Ah,’ said Aziraphale with a slightly wobbly smile of his own, ‘There you are, back at last.’

Crowley had managed to gain a loose grip on Aziraphale’s sleeve. He pulled weakly at it, hoping the action alone would convey what he wanted. Aziraphale allowed himself be drawn closer but he resisted coming to lie beside him.

‘I might hurt you.’

‘Won’t,’ said Crowley, tugging at Aziraphale’s sleeve again. 

‘Tell me how much pain you’re in and I’ll consider it.’

Crowley shifted slightly, both to make room on the bed and to test what would happen if he moved. There was pain enough but it had edges, limits.

‘Tricky thing to quantify. Doubt a hug will finish me off.’ 

Aziraphale gave a short chuckle.

‘You sound more yourself, at least.’

Gingerly Aziraphale joined him on the bed, wrapping an arm around Crowley and pulling him close.

‘Is this alright?’

Crowley, momentarily overwhelmed by just how very alright it was, muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in the hollow of Aziraphale’s neck. He could endure any pain for this, go through anything.

Aziraphale began rubbing small circles on Crowley’s back, the warmth of his hand passing easily through the silk of his pyjamas.

‘Will you tell me what happened, my dear?’

Crowley took a breath, holding the scent of Aziraphale in his lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly.

‘Nothing happened, nothing new.’

Aziraphale’s hand stilled, palm flat against one of Crowley’s too sharp shoulder blades.

‘Do explain.’

Crowley concentrated on his immediate surroundings, the sheets beneath him, the covers tight around him, the cotton of Aziraphale’s shirt. The softness that belied the solid security of Aziraphale’s presence, the certainty of his love, his devotion. Everything else Crowley felt was in the past, a haunting reminder but nothing more. 

‘I’m fine,’ Crowley said, feeling it was important to reiterate this point before anything else was said. 

‘Fine,’ said Aziraphale dryly, ‘Is not the word I would have used.’

‘Will be soon, just takes time.’

‘This has happened before?’

Crowley cringed at his mistake.

‘Get headaches, sometimes, not often, not any more. It’s nothing to worry about.’

There was a long pause during which Aziraphale did nothing but breathe in and out very slowly. Crowley sensed the very instant he made the decision to push further.

‘You said things in your sleep.’

Crowley’s breath hitched, the shock striking him hard. Before his thoughts could spiral into filling all the blanks, Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his forehead. His next words brushed across Crowley’s skin, whisper soft.

‘Hell did this to you, didn't they? They hurt you.’

Fuck. Crowley had definitely not bargained on having revealed anything while unconscious. Not ideal.

‘Aziraphale…’

He tried but Crowley could not push the words out. He didn’t want to say it, any of it. He didn't want to have to remember or explain. Aziraphale’s grip on his arm tightened, relaxed, tightened again as he waited for what might come next. When nothing more was forthcoming, Aziraphale placed his forehead on Crowley's and sighed. 

‘I knew,’ he said, ‘Part of me always knew. We don’t have to talk about it, not now, but when you’re ready please know that you can tell me anything.’

‘Angel…’

‘I’m serious, Crowley. I know why you didn’t…why you haven’t…why you never…’

Aziraphale was getting worked up, his words tripping over themselves before he brought himself up short, taking a moment to compose himself.

‘You’ve always protected me but there’s no need for that anymore. You have endured literal Hell, my dear. The least I can do is be here to listen should you ever wish to talk about it.’

Crowley mumbled something inaudible. Thankfully Aziraphale got the message loud and clear, dropping the subject and easing Crowley back to sleep.

A week passed in a haze of naps, soft touches and books read aloud until at last Crowley was able to leave the confines of the bedroom. With its primary resident incapacitated, the flat had apparently allowed Aziraphale free reign. Furniture had rearranged itself, sharp edges softening, while an alarming number of cushions and blankets appeared to be staging a takeover bid against the plants. Crowley appreciated the intent but he had to draw the line somewhere. 

‘Don’t drink tea.’

‘You do today,’ Aziraphale said as he handed him a mug, ‘It’s restorative.’

Crowley eyed the mug’s contents warily.

‘Blessed it have you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Aziraphale, 'Drink up or I’ll make you eat something as well.’

Crowley smirked a little at the threat but lifted his mug to indicate his acquiescence. It was strange, the two of them here in his flat. They had spent so little time here together and, though he had done his best to tartan the place up in the name of comfort, Aziraphale still looked entirely out of place amongst the minimalism.

‘You must be missing the shop.’

‘It’ll keep,’ said Aziraphale, ‘And I’m not at all ready to leave you.’

Crowley smiled, couldn’t help it. Not so very long ago he had only heard such things in dreams. Aziraphale’s thoughts seemed to have settled on a similar theme, a faint blush rising to colour his cheeks a sunrise pink. Fuck but he was beautiful.

‘I never wanted you to know.’

Crowley hadn’t meant to say it, not really, but it wasn't right, sitting together, still with secrets between them. He didn't want to have to hide or lie or pretend, not any more. 

‘There wasn’t anything you could have done.’

Aziraphale’s lips thinned a little at this but he nodded, just once. He was sitting so straight backed and tense it looked painful. He would listen, Aziraphale's posture was saying, whether he wanted to hear or not. He would stay. 

Crowley hesitated right on the precipice. He’d thought he was ready but one look at Aziraphale’s face, so full of trepidation for what was to come, and no, he couldn’t do it. Restlessness seized him, propelling Crowley out of his chair and across the room.

‘Crowley?’

Crowley wheeled back around to face a startled Aziraphale.

‘Out.’ Crowley waggled his fingers in the vague direction of the window. ‘We should. Out there. Us. Now.’

‘Are you quite sure you’re up to it?’

Crowley was not at all sure but they couldn’t stay in the flat, penned in by the grey walls. Suffering through the discomfort of the impending conversation was bad enough, there was no need to make things worse by staying in a place neither of them wanted to be.

They walked straight by St James’s Park though Crowley felt Aziraphale pulling instinctively in that direction. The drizzle which had seemed as if it would continue all day had stopped by the time they reached the river. Whether this was Aziraphale’s doing or not, Crowley wasn’t sure, didn’t ask. His own power was returning too slowly for him to risk overexerting himself by influencing the local weather. Even so as Aziraphale lowered the umbrella he had been holding over both of them, Crowley felt strangely bereft by its loss.

The level of the Thames were unusually high. Staring out at the churning torrent, Crowley watched a sizeable branch being tossed by the current. The sight made him feel oddly vulnerable, as if he too were in danger of being washed away.

A hand found his, warm fingers slotting between Crowley’s chilled ones. A lump rose painfully in Crowley’s throat as Aziraphale moved closed still, their shoulders brushing together. Being touched, especially out in the open, where anyone might see; it was a lot, still. Crowley glanced sideways, glad of his glasses. Aziraphale was looking out at the water, apparently content to allow Crowley the time he needed to prepare himself to speak. 

Or not. Crowley didn’t have to say anything. What good would it do? The pain in his head had finally receded to a barely worth mentioning ache. It would be back, it always came back, but Crowley had no intention of rushing it. Hell had tortured him, that’s what Hell did, and it was over now. Providing the details would only upset Aziraphale for no good reason. Perhaps though, perhaps some of it was worth explaining. 

‘I won’t have another attack like that for a while.’

Crowley was surprised to hear his own voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat, gave Aziraphale’s hand a tight squeeze which was immediately returned.

‘How often does it happen?’ Aziraphale asked, tentatively.

‘Used to be every few months but it’s less now, a lot less. Last one was over three years ago.’

‘Three years,’ Aziraphale repeated, sounding unexpectedly cheered, ‘Why that’s certainly long enough for us to find a cure.’

Crowley should not have been surprised, it was a kind thought, a generous one, worthy of an angel.

‘Don’t think I haven’t tried. Been trying for centuries.’

‘But there must be something we can do, something that can help.’

‘You helped, angel.’

‘Oh, but I didn’t…’

‘S’true.’

‘You never came to me.’ Aziraphale’s voice was low, almost inaudible. ‘All this time, I could have eased your suffering but you never came.’

The unspoken hung heavily between them. Crowley's first instinct was to push through, make light of it, move them both swiftly to safer ground the way he so often did, but he found he didn't have the energy for it. And more than that, he simply didn't want to. 

‘I did come to you.’

‘What? When?’

‘Never let you know I was there, wasn't safe, and...' Crowley hesitated. 'And I wasn't sure how you'd react.' 

The weight of his memories was pressing down hard, all those nights he had spent in the aftershock of pain, afraid of Hell, terrified they would come for him again, even more terrified that they would come for Aziraphale and he would not be able to stop them. So much terror, so much pain.

‘I wish,’ Aziraphale said, squeezing Crowley's hand, not finishing the thought.

‘I know.’ 

They were silent for a long while after that. Crowley went back to watching the water but the relentlessness of it was starting to make him feel lightheaded. He began to wish they had not walked so far. Sitting down might be a good idea, lying down a better one. Crowley meant to formulate an entire question but instead a single word emerged.

‘Bookshop.’

Fortunately Aziraphale seemed to understand him perfectly.

‘Of course! We should get you home.’

Aziraphale released his hand, immediately linking their arms so he could more forcefully guide Crowley back towards the road. 

Crowley’s usual visceral dislike of taxis was somewhat dampened by Aziraphale's own obvious distaste. Much as he might complain about Crowley's driving, Aziraphale had never really taken to anyone else having the privilege. Besides, Crowley found it very difficult to hate anything at all while his head was pillowed on Aziraphale's shoulder. 

‘We’re here, my darling.’

The backroom sofa swallowed him up the way it always had, the throw Aziraphale tucked around him as comforting as ever. Crowley slept for a while, unaided, woke to the lamp lit sight of Aziraphale reading. His angel wing mug was beside his elbow, the contents long grown cold. Crowley extracted a hand from beneath a cushion and snapped, the contents obediently returning to the perfect drinking temperature. It only took a few moments for Aziraphale to reach absently for the mug, take a sip and hum happily.

'Cocoa doesn't stay hot indefinitely, you know.'

Aziraphale marked his place in his book with a careful finger before peering at Crowley through his ridiculous reading glasses.

‘You’re awake.’

‘So it would seem.’

Aziraphale smiled softly.

‘And how are you feeling, my dear?’

‘Cold.’

It was not strictly speaking the truth but accuracy came secondary to the pressing need to find a word that would bring Aziraphale from over there to right beside him. In a satisfyingly short time, Crowley was tucked up beside his angel, the blanket now around them both.

‘This won’t change anything, will it?’ Crowley rubbed the edge of the blanket between thumb and forefinger as he spoke. ‘The looking after me and all. It’s not…too much?’

Aziraphale started to say something but Crowley kept talking, speaking over him, unable to stop. 

‘They broke something in me, angel. Don’t think they meant to. Makes it worse, in a way. Means I just wasn’t strong enough.’

‘Not strong enough? Oh my dear, how could say such a thing?’ Aziraphale shifted, his arms coming up as Crowley sank into the gorgeous expanse of his chest. ‘You had strength enough to come back to me, that’s more than enough.’

‘Came back broken,’ Crowley murmured into the worn material of Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

‘You came back,’ Aziraphale said again with considerable firmness, ‘You survived, Crowley, and you kept going. You kept _us_ going.’

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s hair.

‘You don’t have to suffer silently any more, dearest. In fact, I will be extremely upset if you do.’

Aziraphale kissed his hair again and then unexpectedly made a sound not dissimilar to one a cat might make before the arrival of a furball.

‘Forgive me,’ said Aziraphale, recovering his composure with some difficulty, ‘But really my dear, just how much product does your hair require? There’s no one else here!’

Crowley smirked unseen.

‘Would have used less if I’d known you’d be eating it.’

‘If you would oblige me by presenting a more appetising target?’ 

Crowley tilted his face up and was immediately struck by those bright eyes. Fuck, those eyes. That face. Those lips. Being this close was no longer unusual and yet familiarity did not prevent Crowley from being overwhelmed.

‘I love you.’

This was new, the articulation, the saying it out loud. The words made Crowley’s tongue tingle, his pulse quicken, his corporation doing its best to remind him that he was doing something terrifying. Aziraphale generally grew tense too. Sometimes he paled, other times his gaze darted left and right, the terror they had both lived with for so long rising to the surface. This time, however, his eyes were fixed solely on Crowley’s. There was no anxiety in his demeanour, not the slightest ripple.

‘And I adore you, dearest.’

Warmth flared in Crowley’s chest, soothing and thrilling at the exact same time. It was a feeling someone might very easily become helplessly addicted to. Someone else obviously, Crowley had things completely under control.

‘What time is it?’ he asked, ‘You hungry? I could make pancakes, or there’s that cherry jam you haven’t tried yet. What goes with jam?’

Crowley thought for a moment, his imagination painting a technicolour picture of all that he might do for Aziraphale to show him how very, very grateful he was. 

‘Crowley?’

‘Toast! Or eggs? Toast and eggs. Might be some bacon in the fridge. Could fry up some tomatoes with it.’

‘That sounds lovely, my dear.’

‘Which part?’

‘All of it but if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to defer breakfast a little longer.’

Aziraphale pulled the blanket higher up around Crowley’s shoulders, kissed him on the forehead, pulled Crowley closer.

‘I love you,’ Aziraphale whispered and Crowley felt it again, a punch of feeling so intense it was almost painful, distracting enough that he almost missed the next part. ‘More than breakfast.’

Crowley huffed a laugh.

‘You sure?’

‘I’ve given it a lot of thought,’ said Aziraphale, the smile warming his voice, ‘And yes, I am absolutely certain.’

Better than breakfast. Hearing that was good now but it was going to be fucking delicious when Crowley remembered it later while Aziraphale tucked into a full plate and started showing audible appreciation.

‘I’m certain of something else too.’

‘What’s that?’ Crowley asked, still half lost in the haze of imagining Aziraphale going through all his favourite foods and comparing them to him.

‘You are not alone.’

‘Very aware of that,’ said Crowley as he burrowed a little deeper into the blanket, snuggling closer to Aziraphale in the process.

‘What I mean to say,’ Aziraphale continued, sounding ever so slightly put out that he was having to explain himself, ‘Is that you never need face anything alone again. Now that I…now that we…’

He struggled a moment or two longer and then said, a little desperately, ‘Oh, you must understand what I mean.' 

There was something stuck in Crowley’s throat, something in his eyes too. He was very glad all of a sudden that Aziraphale could no longer see his face. 

‘Got it, angel.’

Crowley was leaning heavily on Aziraphale now, half wishing he could melt into him, disappear. He could feel Aziraphale’s power around him keeping the last vestiges of pain at bay, if he let his eyes lose focus he could see it as a shield around him, shimmering.

‘Feel safe.’ Crowley’s next words would have been easy to miss had he not been clinging to Aziraphale for dear life, pressing each one against his skin like a kiss. ‘Feel safe with you.’

‘Dear one,’ said Aziraphale, with warmth, with promise, with infinite love, ‘You are.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hi on tumblr @marbledwings


End file.
